


Daguerreotype

by only_more_love



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Ficlet Collection, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-30
Updated: 2019-04-03
Packaged: 2019-12-27 00:10:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18292937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/only_more_love/pseuds/only_more_love
Summary: How Steve and Tony say, “I love you” without saying the words.1. by exercising compassion2. by letting the other know he's thinking of him3. by offering help when it's neededThis is a collection of Stony drabbles and ficlets. Because I dislike the wall-of-tags look that can build for a series with lots of little bits, I've chosen this chapter option instead. Please consider each chapter self-contained unless I mention otherwise. If you like, subscribe for updates. The tags and any necessary warnings for each ficlet will be posted in the notes. Feel free to leave me prompts here or send them to me on Tumblr.





	1. how you remind me

**Author's Note:**

> No warnings.  
> Rated: T  
> Additional Tags: Pre-slash, Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), POV Tony Stark

Two weeks after Tony makes it back to Earth, he and the surviving Avengers help the NYPD try to stem a rising tide of looting and rioting.

“Hey, Craptain,” someone shouts. “Craptain America.”

Tony turns.

Steve stands frozen, his body a long, taut wire.

Three feet away looms a man with eyes as blue as Steve’s. Rage stains his cheeks red. “Fuck you.”

Tony stalks toward them, stopping on Steve’s right. “Have some respect.”

“Respect? He should be dust.” The man rears back and spits.

Spittle gleams on Steve’s cheek; something inside Tony wrenches.

“You’re right,” Steve says, chin tipped down.

Tony materializes cloth from his suit and reaches toward Steve’s face.

Steve’s gloved hand catches Tony’s gauntleted wrist—and doesn't let go. “Leave it.”

“No.” Tony wipes with his free hand. “He’s wrong.”

Under his touch, Steve shakes his head.


	2. you're not that easy to forget

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No warnings.  
> Rated: T  
> Additional Tags: Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), POV Tony Stark

At least every two weeks, an envelope arrives.

Foreign postage. No return address. Addressed to DUM-E, care of Anthony Edward Stark.

Tony has a system for opening it: his workshop at night but never before midnight; Glencairn crystal cradling a finger of scotch keeps him company on a work table―sometimes he drinks it, more often it remains untouched―shades of amber and gold he remembers from Steve’s hair, damn him to hell and back _, supersoldier metabolism’s a bitch; is he getting enough to eat?_ ; and G N’ R’s “ [ November Rain ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8SbUC-UaAxE)” plays just barely on the right side of skull-thrumming loud.

He owns a letter opener, an honest to goodness letter opener that he doesn’t know where or when he picked up. It looks like nothing so much as a dagger― _how's that for dramatic irony?_ ―and slices through the envelope with a clean, drawn-out _tcch_ sound that somehow, _somehow_ , Tony can hear, even with the music on.

When Slash’s guitar solo begins, his eyes fall shut for a cupped palmful of seconds. It’s only after that he’s allowed to remove what’s inside the envelope. His hands always shake like a drunk’s when he takes out the contents, no matter if he’s had a drop to drink or not, but there’s no one but his bots and F.R.I.D.A.Y. to see, so he tells himself he doesn’t care.

What emerges is a drawing. It’s always a drawing. Never a letter; never anything else. The paper is rarely pristine, more often bearing wrinkles or dotted with now-dry splotches where the ink or pencil smeared when liquid splashed it. The paper changes, though. At times it’s the size of Tony’s hand; at times it’s a ripped receipt or jagged scrap dressed up in a doodle.

The subject varies. Blades of grass. Trees. A tire. Crosshatched shadows. Hands, short-nailed and spotted with tiny cuts. One time, Tony’s face in profile, wreathed in a smile and what seem to be grease stains. Each drawing has the initials S.R. tucked away. That's where Tony's gaze and fingertips linger.

The first drawing he gets, he rips in half and stuffs in the trash. He only makes it as far as the workshop door before he runs back. Curses fall from his mouth like shards of glass as he fishes the scraps out of the trash and rummages for tape.

(He never makes that mistake again. Occasionally, Tony Stark does, in fact, learn.)

After that, every night ends the same―with Tony damp-eyed and tired, sliding the newest drawing into his bedside drawer like a bird gathering bits of dross for its nest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. :) Comments and kudos are always appreciated. If you've enjoyed this, please let me know. All comments are treasured, and I do respond to all of them, though it sometimes takes me a while. No guarantees, but feel free to send me a prompt here or on Tumblr. 
> 
> Other places you can find me: [Pillowfort](https://www.pillowfort.io/onlymorelove), [Tumblr](https://onlymorelove.tumblr.com), [Dreamwidth](https://only-more-love.dreamwidth.org/), and [Twitter](https://twitter.com/onlymorelove). I'm on Discord as onlymorelove#8488; you can often find me posting garbage on various Marvel Discord servers.


	3. the journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No warnings.  
> Rated: T  
> Additional Tags: POV Steve Rogers, References to Alcoholism, Established Relationship, Loving Marriage, Light Angst

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh god, that trailer. I don't know how I'm going to make it to the end of the month. The wait for Endgame is _killing_ me. I need to know what Marcel and the Russos are going to do to our boys--and everyone else. I don't know about you, but I'll be taking a box of tissues into the movie theater with me.

"People think that intimacy is about sex. But intimacy is about truth. When you realize you can tell someone your truth, when you can show yourself to them, when you stand in front of them and their response is 'you’re safe with me' - that’s intimacy."

_~ The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo: A Novel_   - Taylor Jenkins Reid

* * *

 

They’ve missed their last three date nights due to Avengers emergencies, which, strangely enough, never seem to give a damn that Tony’s made reservations at a new Italian place he’s sure Steve will love, or that Steve wants to watch the sun drift off to sleep in shades of yellow, orange, and red over Jones Beach with Tony solid, present, and warm in his arms and sand gliding between their toes.

Tonight, though, is simple and uncomplicated, and it’s happening: pizza, a few beers, pool, and then sex, assuming they both feel like it. As long as they get some much-needed time together, Steve will be happy.

Steve riffles through his side of the closet until he finds what he’s looking for―a cobalt blue Henley. The choice is a strategic one; typically, when Steve wears it, Tony can’t keep his warm hands to himself for more than a few minutes at a time. Somehow, his fingers find their way running endless paths up and down Steve’s arms; writing equations along the wings of his shoulder blades; sliding blunt-nailed lines low on his back that distract Steve despite their innocence.

He pulls the shirt over his head and tugs down the hem before he checks his hair in the bathroom mirror. After he smooths down a tuft of hair that got caught in the crossfire when he changed, he gives a satisfied nod and pats his back pocket to make sure his phone is in his jeans.

He expects to find Tony in their bedroom, ready or at least close to ready to head out.

What he expects isn’t what he finds. Not exactly.

Tony, still wearing the suit he put on for an earlier meeting, sits on their bedroom floor. His back is pressed up against the side of the bed, his legs stretched out in front of him, and he doesn’t glance up when Steve enters. A bedside drawer is open near his head. One knee bounces up and down, and Steve has the urge to touch his palm to it to still the motion. If pressed, he couldn’t explain why; the jiggling makes the fine hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

There’s a mini bottle cradled between Tony’s hands, and he keeps turning it round and round, the glass glinting in the light. On one of the rotations, Steve reads the label: Glenfiddich. Scotch.

“Sweetheart?”

Tony doesn’t answer, doesn’t give any indication at all that he’s heard Steve; he just keeps fiddling with the bottle. So Steve settles on the floor next to him and mirrors his posture, allowing their bodies to press from shoulder to hip to ankle. _I’m here._ When Tony doesn’t move away, Steve carefully slides an arm around him, letting his fingers stroke quiet patterns at the sweet turn of Tony’s shoulder.

He doesn’t rush to fill the silence with meaningless chatter―that’s never been his way―and besides, Steve knows some things require space and the absence of sound before they can be spoken―even for Tony.

The words, when they come, are soft: “I want to stop.”

“Okay.”

“I want to stop drinking.” A shaky breath escapes from Tony’s mouth, and Steve wants to tighten his arm―hold him closer, shield him―but he doesn’t allow himself to. Because that would be in service of what Steve wants but not what Tony needs. His fingertips continue their slow rhythm at Tony’s shoulder, a steady counterpoint to his unsteady breath. Steve feels...a little lost. A little unsure. But this, this holding space for Tony, he can do. It’s the least he wants to do. “I don’t like how it makes me feel. Or maybe the truth is I like it too much, and that’s how I...how I know I need to stop. Now. Before I can’t stop anymore.”

Steve closes his eyes and lets Tony wash over him: the vestiges of the cologne he put on that morning; the restless tick of his heartbeat; the cadence of his breath. “What can I do?” Steve asks, eyes blinking open, once he thinks Tony is done. _Something. Anything. Tell me, please. Let me help you._

“I can’t keep it—any of it—around here. But I can’t”—Tony’s voice dips into a shallow quiver—“make myself get rid of it, either.”

Tony twists, turning to look at Steve directly for the first time, eyes wide and mouth pinched. Steve rubs over the clean, trim lines of Tony’s goatee, letting the hairs scratch the pad of his thumb. His other hand he holds out toward Tony, fingers uncurled and palm flat. Lips stitched into a thoughtful frown, Tony drops his gaze from Steve’s and gives the bottle a final twirl before he straightens and places it in Steve’s open hand. Before he withdraws his touch, he traces a single fingertip over Steve’s wedding ring.

The bottle’s weight is insignificant, the moment’s anything but.

Steve nods, once. “I’ll throw them all out. Besides the bar downstairs, where else do you have them?”

Tony clears his throat. He laces his fingers together and bends them until his knuckles crack. “In the bathroom, behind the extra rolls of toilet tissue. There’s some in my sock drawer, too.”

“Anywhere else?” Steve asks, purposefully keeping his voice level.

“Behind the extra towels in the linen closet. In the cabinet under the kitchen sink, hidden behind the dish soap. Um, there might be some in the rag drawer in my workshop.” Tony purses his lips and exhales loudly. “Oh, and in the under-sink cabinet in the bathroom down there, too.” He runs a hand over his hair. “Maybe.” His shoulders hunch, and he curls inward.

“I’ll take care of it.” Steve rises and holds his free hand out to Tony, who takes it and stands, too, albeit more slowly. “Just give me a minute. I’ll be right back.”

Back in their closet, Steve searches for Tony’s MIT sweatshirt. Then thinking better of it, he grabs one of his own sweatshirts, a plain charcoal one that will fit loose and comfortable on Tony’s smaller frame, a pair of Tony’s sweatpants, and a pair of white athletic socks.

When he goes back to Tony, he’s seated on the edge of the bed, suit jacket off, and he’s fiddling with the cuffs of his white dress shirt, bottom lip caught between his teeth. “Here,” Steve says and hands him the pile of comfort clothes.

Fatigue and stress etch sharp creases around Tony’s mouth, but as he glances up at Steve and takes the bundle of clothes from him, a certain lightness seeps into his expression; he smiles like Steve’s given him a priceless gift. “Thank you.”  
  
“You’re welcome,” Steve replies, curving his palm around Tony’s jaw, gratitude full and warm in his chest. “Why don’t you change and find something for us to watch? I’ll take care of this and scrounge up some food and be back in a little while.”

“Ever the man with the plan, huh?” Tony says, and while the words are light, his voice isn’t, and a dull flush climbs his cheeks and perches there.

“You know better than that,” Steve chides. _Please don't hide from me._  Because this is too important not to get right, he uses his fingers to tilt Tony’s chin so they can see each other’s eyes. Many of their best conversations—the ones that mean the most—are wordless. “I’m just stumbling around in the dark like everyone else.” _Don’t be ashamed. Not with me._

Tony shakes his head in denial but takes Steve’s hand, threading their fingers together. “Well, then I’m glad we’re stumbling around together,” he says, gently swinging their joined hands, still staring up at Steve, something unreadable in his face.

“Me, too.” Steve leans down, and Tony's eyes shutter, as he dusts kisses to the tender, familiar stretch of Tony’s mouth, the tip of his nose, and his forehead. “I’ll be back,” he says, and it’s a promise they both renew and try their best to keep, again and again, in spite of the dangerous and uncertain lives they lead.

Armed with several trash bags, Steve methodically goes through every spot Tony mentioned and snatches up every bottle of alcohol he finds. Most of it’s top-shelf, but he ignores his own internal wince at the waste and takes them straight out to the dumpster behind the Tower. The choice to not drink is one that Tony alone will have to make, repeatedly, and Steve can't make it for him, even if he wants to. But Tony's not alone. This Steve can do for him. This he said he'd take care of, so he does. 

That done, his growling stomach reminds him it’s past dinner time, so he heads to the kitchen. There he makes quick work of washing up strawberries and blueberries, assembling grilled cheese sandwiches on thick sourdough bread, and reheating leftover tomato soup that he swirls just a smidgen of heavy cream into. Carefully, he puts everything on a folding tray. He’s not crazy about eating in bed, but he figures they can make an exception; Tony could use it, and they can always change the sheets after if they need to.  
  
“All done,” Steve says as he returns to their bedroom and finds Tony scooted up against a pile of pillows with the TV on. He looks small and young and soft in their large bed, wearing Steve’s too-big shirt, and all Steve wants to do is hold him. “Do you want to talk about it? About what brought this on?”

“No, not really. Not now. Just felt like something I needed to do,” Tony replies. He pushes the blankets out of the way, toward the bottom of the bed. “Okay if we just watch TV?” His words are casual, but his jaw’s tight as if he expects Steve to argue.

Steve simply nods. “Sure. What are we watching?”

The tension bleeds out of Tony’s jaw, and Steve knows he was right not to push. “ _MacGyver_ ―aka Richard Dean Anderson’s mullet. Just trust me, you’ll love it.”

Within a few minutes, they’re comfortably arranged in their bed, Steve against pillows and the headboard, Tony cuddled up in front of him, his back pressed to Steve’s chest. “Hey,” Tony says in a murmur, “I’m sorry about ruining tonight. I know we were supposed to go out.”

“Shh,” Steve replies, gathering Tony as close as he can, “you didn’t ruin anything.” He whispers the words into Tony’s soft, dark curls. “I don’t care. I only want to be with you.”

Sure, it’s not what they‘d planned, but Steve would be a fool if his own life hadn’t taught him that things don’t always go according to plan. No pizza, no pool, and no beer, but the essential ingredients―him and Tony―are there.

They're enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. :) Comments and kudos are always appreciated. If you've enjoyed this, please let me know. All comments are treasured, and I do respond to all of them, though it sometimes takes me a while. No guarantees, but feel free to send me a prompt here or on Tumblr. 
> 
> Other places you can find me: [Pillowfort](https://www.pillowfort.io/onlymorelove), [Tumblr](https://onlymorelove.tumblr.com), [Dreamwidth](https://only-more-love.dreamwidth.org/), and [Twitter](https://twitter.com/onlymorelove). I'm on Discord as onlymorelove#8488; you can often find me posting garbage on various Marvel Discord servers.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. :) Comments and kudos are always appreciated. If you've enjoyed this, please let me know. All comments are treasured, and I do respond to all of them, though it sometimes takes me a while. No guarantees, but feel free to send me a prompt here or on Tumblr. 
> 
> Other places you can find me: [Pillowfort](https://www.pillowfort.io/onlymorelove), [Tumblr](https://onlymorelove.tumblr.com), [Dreamwidth](https://only-more-love.dreamwidth.org/), and [Twitter](https://twitter.com/onlymorelove). I'm on Discord as onlymorelove#8488; you can often find me posting garbage on various Marvel Discord servers.


End file.
